MIDDLETOWN >> Abdulrahman Kreiyeh, 18, lives in Middletown, but comes from Midan, a neighborhood in Damascus, Syria's capital. He moved to the United States in February and is attending Central Connecticut State University, and hopes to become a dentist.

Little more than a year ago, Kreiyeh's life was very different. He was in a Syrian prison being tortured for participating in the protests that have since become a full-blown revolution.

Kreiyeh, a Muslim, said there's a special prayer one says when they feel they are about to die.

"So I start to pray," Kreiyeh said. "So he turned off the chair. He said, 'Now, you were praying to God, to Allah.' I said, 'Yes.' He said, 'Now you are going to pray to Bashar Al Assad because he is your god.' So he told me, 'Say Bashar Al Assad is my god.'"

Adib Chouiki is the Connecticut chapter coordinator for the Swasia foundation, a charity that funnels humanitarian aid into Syria. He said such treatment of prisoners is commonplace.

"It's unfortunate, because once you're in, it means you are subject to any kind of humiliation, by being beaten by cable, being beaten by sticks, being subject to electric shock," Chouiki said. "And not counting, unfortunately, the rape which our women who have been arrested suffer in the military installations and in the security establishment."

Before Kreiyeh was imprisoned, he was just another protester on the streets of Damascus, emboldened by the Arab Spring and incensed by the incident that sparked Syria's uprising: the arrest and torture of a half-dozen youths in the town of Daraa. This incident, Kreiyeh said, incited the demonstrations in Daraa that were violently suppressed. From there, protests snowballed.

Beginning in May 2011, Kreiyeh said he protested in his neighborhood of Midan every day. At the time, Assad's grasp on Damascus was tight; protests were not tolerated. At first, Kreiyeh said demonstrations were organized by text message. But when protesters arrived at pre-planned locations for demonstrations, they found government forces waiting for them. Kreiyeh said protesters soon realized the government was monitoring cellphone traffic. That's when they switched to Facebook.

"Without Facebook, the revolution would have ended in a couple of days," Kreiyeh said. "In Syria, you can't trust anyone."

Kreiyeh said organizers of the demonstrations could not tell just any stranger where the next protest would take place. Facebook allowed organizers to create special pages that were available only to those who were granted access by the administrators of the page. This way, Kreiyeh said, organizers could ensure that only people loyal to the revolution would be informed of where the next demonstration would be held. Even with these precautions, each day's demonstration was short lived.

"We were able to demonstrate only for four or five minutes," Kreiyeh said.

The demonstrations Kreiyeh participated in were more like flash mobs than the sort of protests held in America. Kreiyeh said that almost as soon as a demonstration began, government-hired thugs known as "shabiha" would arrive to suppress it.

"After four or five minutes, you'll see hundreds of shabiha trying to catch the people, running after the people, firing at them. The first two months, they were not using any guns. They just used electric sticks, wooden sticks, and tried to punch the people and run after them," Kreiyeh said. "So we start talking and demonstrating for four or five minutes. And then each one, you have to run. That's all you can do, just run."

When the shabiha started using guns, Kreiyeh said demonstrators adapted, using their cellphones to livestream demonstrations online. While demonstrators had a live audience, Kreiyeh said, the shabiha were kept at bay.

"But the problem is, we can do livestreaming for 10 or 15 minutes, then the government will start to make the Internet slow or cut the Internet," Kreiyeh said. "So when the livestreaming cut down, we'll have problems. And the shabiha will attack us and start shooting and firing."

On August 21, 2011, Kreiyeh participated with his cousin in a protest in Baramkeh, another Damascus neighborhood. At midnight, he said they met with other protesters at a cafe. When they left, Kreiyeh and his cousin were apprehended by shabiha

They were brought to a large, brightly lit parking lot that was being used to stage a mass round-up of suspected demonstrators. Kreiyeh said he saw about 500 shabiha there, interrogating and beating those who had been arrested. Kreiyeh and his cousin were beaten, too; the shabiha wanted to know if they were protestors. Kreiyeh denied everything, but his cousin couldn't take the beating and admitted participation.

"I was so surprised, because he knows -- he demonstrated a lot -- so he knows that the government, if he says he was at a demonstration, that means it is the end of his life," Kreiyeh recalled.

Kreiyeh said they then were packed onto one of three buses along with about 300 other prisoners. Hands bound and blindfolded, Kreiyeh and the other prisoners were transported to a jail, and, once there, 15 of the prisoners, himself included, were chosen from the group, brought into a separate room and beaten. The 15 bloodied prisoners were shown to the rest of the group as an example. Kreiyeh said the other prisoners were told that is what happens to protesters.

The next day, the prisoners were released, Kreiyeh said, except for him and the others who had been selected the night before. They were transferred to another wing of the prison.

That's when Kreiyeh was brought into a room with six doors, where he met a man who identified himself as detective Samir. Kreiyeh said Samir asked him to admit his participation in the demonstrations, and, to force that admission, Samir explained the nature of the doors. Behind each one was a different form of torture. Kreiyeh said Samir told him, "You will not be able to stand those six rooms. You will die, or you will tell me the truth."

Kreiyeh said he continued to deny he was a protester, so he was sent into the first door.

"I saw like three big, big guys, with wooden sticks," Kreiyeh said. "So they told me, lie on the ground. I lied in the ground, and they start beating me on my legs with the wood sticks."

Still, Kreiyeh denied his activism. He was sent into the second room, where he was met by the same three men. This time they were armed with brass knuckles.

"They start beating me on my head and I start bleeding," Kreiyeh said. "I was crying. I tell them, 'Please, please. Why are you beating me? I am from your country.'"

But still, Kreiyeh denied protesting. It wasn't until the third room, with its cattle prods and electric chair, that he gave.

Kreiyeh said he admitted to protesting, but refused to give up the names of fellow protesters. He was sent back to his cell. He said he couldn't sleep that night because he expected to be sent back to the room with six doors. But when the next day came, he wasn't.

He still was tortured, however. Every morning, noon and evening, before their daily meals, Kreiyeh said he and the other prisoners were hung upside-down and beaten about the legs and feet. This continued for two weeks, until, much to Kreiyeh's surprise, he was released.

Kreiyeh was lucky enough to come from a family that held some influence in Damascus. He said his father was able to get him out of prison.

For a short time, Kreiyeh's life returned to normal. He promised his father he would stop protesting, finished high school and enrolled in a university in Aleppo, Syria's second largest city. Aleppo, which is home to heavy fighting now, was free of demonstrations at the time, much to the relief of his parents.

But that didn't last long, Kreiyeh said. In November 2011, a demonstration took place on campus, and Kreiyeh took part. The next day, he was barred from returning. That's when Kreiyeh's father said it was time to go to the United States.

In December 2011, Kreiyeh said he received his student visa after telling his story to the ambassador at the American Embassy in Syria.

Come January 2013, Kreiyeh will start studying biology at CCSU -- a far cry from dodging shabiha in the streets of Damascus.

"I have two different feelings," Kreiyeh said. "I'm glad because I'm safe here right now. But my second feeling is, I have to be in my country demonstrating. This is not my place; I have to be demonstrating to bring down the regime."

Michael Bellmore can be reached at 203-789-5282. Follow him on Twitter @bandango.